


hold your soul open for my welcoming

by littledust



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 05:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13140537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: Todd gets a few postcards from Neil after he runs away, then doesn't hear from him for years. Somehow, they find each other again.





	hold your soul open for my welcoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tekuates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekuates/gifts).



> A treat for you, dear Yuletider! I love this canon and these characters, so thank you for writing such a delightful prompt.
> 
> The title is from "The Giver of Stars" by Amy Lowell.

Todd's final term at Welton begins white and cold, endless snow choking the road out. He sits in the window of his dorm room, avoiding the sight of the empty bed across from his, and wonders how Neil and Mr. Keating made it out through the endless snow. His memories play tricks on him, giving the two of them legs the length of giants, broad feet like snowshoes. Neil didn't just stop by the woods on a snowy evening; he ran away into them, and then to places unknown.

The others respect Todd's grief, although he knows they have more right to it. They were friends with Neil for years, and Todd was--what? The boy Neil told his secrets, knowing that he would never tell another soul?

If Charlie were here, Todd would tell him that sometimes he hates Neil, for getting away, for going away. Charlie would understand. Knox is too gentle, Meeks and Pitts just a shade too removed.

Ever since Todd climbed up on his desk, he can part crowds the way his brother does, the way Neil did. People listen when he speaks, although he still speaks rarely, his tongue numb in his mouth. Todd writes Mr. Keating a letter and posts it. He braces himself for another confrontation with Nolan, but he says nothing.

Todd doesn't expect a response, so he's surprised one icy March day when the postcard comes. It has a monstrosity of a Christmas angel printed on the front. He flips it over and there's no name, just a quotation: 

_My stars shine darkly over_  
me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps  
distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your  
leave that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad  
recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. 

The handwriting, though familiar, isn't Mr. Keating's sprawling script.

Todd's hands tense around the postcard, but some secondary instinct prevents him from crumpling it. He pelts blindly upstairs to his room and slams the door behind him. _Neil._ Neil sent him this from wherever he ran away to.

Todd throws open the window and pulls in breath after breath. His breath fogs against the iron gray sky; the rain drizzles against his face. Neil gave him no return address, nothing but a quotation that implies he won't trouble Todd further, but he's _out there_.

Todd shuts his eyes and hopes.

*

Todd tells the others about the postcard, of course. When they ask to read it, Todd replies, "It's just for me."

Pitts' eyebrows draw together and Meeks opens his mouth to protest, but Knox holds up a hand. "Okay," he says, his eyes too understanding. At least they're not pitying.

Now that they have some tenuous connection to Neil, they can't stop bringing it up in conversation. Is Neil going to go find Charlie? Charlie writes as well, rambling letters from various places in Europe, all strongly implying that he's wooing the women of the world with more poetry. They laugh too loudly, speculating about the two of them crisscrossing the continent. The teachers all frown in their direction.

Yes, Todd realizes, it would have been too risky for Neil to give him a return address. Nolan would have found out somehow, then sent Mr. Perry to pick up his wayward son. That doesn't stop him from turning the postcard over and over in his hands until it's soft and creased. He might have missed some clue to Neil's whereabouts. The Twelfth Night quotation implies Neil doesn't want to be found, but what if there's some code Todd isn't clever enough to figure out? When Todd graduates, how will Neil find his new address?

Two days before graduation, a second postcard arrives. Todd's heart lurches into his mouth when he sees the image on the back, advertising some poolside motel in upstate New York. This time he takes the stairs two at a time.

On the other side, there are just two lines, scribbled: _A call in the midst of a crowd, / My own voice, orotund sweeping and final. --W. Whitman_

With shaking hands, Todd tucks this postcard into his blazer pocket, where he keeps the other one. Neil can't mean that he's coming to graduation, can he? He can't risk that many people who know his face. It's a ridiculous idea, a grandiose, theatrical gesture--

Well. Todd just won't tell the others about this one, and he can nurse his foolish hope in peace.

Two days later, Todd receives his diploma from a man with no imagination and shakes the hands of men with no souls. His parents are in the crowd, their smiles polite, their claps decorous. Todd scans the crowd for a familiar pair of dark eyes and finds nothing, no one. Wherever Neil is, he's moved on.

Now that Todd has a diploma, perhaps he should do the same.

*

Todd begins his first term at Columbia University in the fall. At first he worried about trading one cage for another, but then Charlie sent another madcap letter full of Beat quotations. According to him, a bunch of the poets were in Europe now, but got their start at Columbia. Todd's family name might have opened the doors of Columbia, but as long as he finds a job, he can put himself through school and study whatever he wants.

Of course, Todd isn't the only son or even the eldest son. His parents hear out his intended course of study with disinterest; after all, there's his brother's wedding to plan, and then grandchildren to plan for after that. Not for the first time, Todd blesses the long shadow his brother casts.

And to his surprise, Todd takes to city living. He likes the constant hum and bustle of people, all heading to destinations unknown. He fills his little apartment with textbooks and then more books, piling them up when he runs out of shelves. His parents buy him another desk set, which Todd actually needs this time. He tacks the two postcards from Neil to the wall above his desk.

One of his professors says that every author writes for a specific audience, and it can be as broad or narrow as the author likes. When Todd writes poems, they're for Neil. His thoughts order themselves into little poems the size of a postcard, proof of life sent through the mail. Most of the quotations he copies are to help him with his studies, but a few are just for Neil: _What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies._

One of Todd's classmates asks him if he has anyone in his past, some kind of lost love that makes him look twice at crowds. He tells her that she has the imagination of a poet. Days later, he realizes that she was probably trying to ask him on a date. Weeks later, he acknowledges that she's right.

Todd can't--won't--live his life between two postcards. He explores New York City with new determination to see and taste and touch all he can of this broad, beautiful place. If he does that, if he sucks the marrow out of life--well, what does it matter, who he writes his poems for?

*

Todd studies and explores and writes his way through college. He never connects with any of his professors the way he did with Mr. Keating, but most of them call him a promising new voice in American literature. Todd's advisor connects him to an independent press interested in nurturing new poets. They take his collection of poems and release it as a slim blue volume. Todd calls it _Letters to the Cave._

When Todd writes to tell Keating the news, Keating writes back: _That title will make all your reviewers talk about Plato, you know._ Todd can hear the chuckle in his old teacher's voice, somehow translated to paper and ink.

More and more mail enters Todd's life after that. There are places that want him to do readings, little bookstores and coffeehouses. The idea of reading his poems in front of perfect strangers makes Todd's skin crawl. His intended audience still numbers one. Todd made it through the editing process by clinging to the knowledge that no one had to _see_ his raw poems aside from the editor and a few trusted friends.

"Go," said trusted friends urge him, the traitors. "What are you waiting for?"

Todd finally says yes to the smallest coffeehouse he can find. He never thought of himself as hip enough for those places, but they did ask him, after all. Most of Todd's poems are sketches of feeling, daubs and blurs like impressionist paintings. There are a few shades of Vietnam as its specter looms ever larger, but no drugs, no states of ecstasy. Todd imagines reading his poems where the Beat poets once stood and wants to throw up.

The day of the poetry reading, Todd finally takes one of the postcards off the wall and tucks it inside his jacket. "My own voice," Todd mutters, his voice too loud in his silent apartment. Memory fills in the rest of the quote automatically. Despite everything, it makes him smile. After the sting of disappointment faded after graduation, Todd wondered if that quotation had been Neil's wish for _him_ , to carry on the work that Keating and a sweaty-toothed madman began.

Friends and professors got wind of Todd's reading and have crammed the little coffeehouse full by the time Todd arrives. Apparently, the coffeehouse also went as far to advertise his presence. He drinks water instead of espresso, already jittery. There's a microphone set up, both a blessing and a curse: if Todd's voice comes out too quiet, it will still be heard. There will be no hiding.

Still, there's no need for hiding. Todd was found years ago.

Todd steps up to the microphone, poetry book in hand. His palms are sweating, but his head is clear. "Hello. I'd like to read you a few of my poems," he says, and his voice is as clear as his head, drawn from the deepest well of himself to speak what was already there.

When Todd finishes his reading, he looks up. Every audience member is clapping, save for one in the back, already turning to leave. The figure has dark hair, and vanishes through the doorway in the next instant.

Todd takes the glass of champagne one of his friends brought. The coffeehouse doesn't seem to mind, and he needs a drink.

*

Dizzy with triumph, Todd returns to his apartment. He sleeps late. When he wakes, the sunlight already turning gold with afternoon, he makes himself an extravagant breakfast. He'll have to accept more invitations to do readings. He glances over at the wall. Panic stabs at his chest until he retrieves the postcard from the jacket he wore last night. Safe.

When Todd brings in the mail, there are still more invitations. Some of them are repeats, but how did some of these little nook and cranny places even hear of him? Todd shakes his head, bewildered. When a Beat coffeehouse advertises you, word travels fast.

There's another envelope, the return address some theater Todd has never heard of before. He opens it, half-expecting yet another reading invitation, and finds a ticket instead. Twelfth Night. Tonight.

Slowly, Todd looks over at the other postcard on the wall.

"No," he says aloud, but his heart already knows what his mind refuses to process. He'll go to the show tonight, and he'll see for himself who sent the ticket. Todd spends far too long crafting replies to the rest of the reading invitations, anything to fill up the hours in between now and the show.

When Todd arrives at the theater, the people in the audience resemble the people at the coffeehouse: long-haired, smoking cigarettes or joints. Why they want to see a centuries-old play mystifies Todd until he gets a look at the set. Illyria is done up to look like Christmas in New York City, which some of his professors would hate. Todd smiles, imagining their reactions.

He risks a look in the program just as the lights dim. One of the actors is named _Perry Whitman._

Most of the actors are talented enough to rise above the odd production concept, but for once, Shakespeare's words don't sweep Todd away. He's scanning crowds all over again, except this time they're under spotlights. Still, still, there is no flash of familiar dark eyes.

Then the second act opens with Sebastian and Antonio.

Todd has to cover his mouth with both hands to suppress a cry, he who never raised an outcry in his life except once. It's _Neil_ playing Sebastian, Sebastian's grief for his sister heavy upon him. 

Todd hardly catches the words as he leans forward, drinking in the sight of Neil, _Neil_. He doesn't look older except in the way he carries himself, with a steadiness that Neil never had at Welton. At Welton, Neil was quicksilver, brimful of ideas, but always projecting outwards with no thought for his own center of gravity. This Neil is wholly himself, even as he brings another character to life.

The musical language of _Twelfth Night_ ebbs and flows around Todd. His heart breaks and reforms when Neil raises his head and cries, " _How have the hours rack'd and tortured me, Since I have lost thee!_ " Perhaps they have been laying clues for one another all this, chasing snatches of poetry, a particular alignment of stars. Or this is just a strange string of coincidences. For once, Todd doesn't require an explanation.

The play ends; the actors take their bows. Todd rises to his feet, clapping as hard as he can. He thinks, hopes, that Neil spots him in the audience. Thinks, hopes that Neil will expect him outside, waiting.

*

"You came." An enormous grin splits Neil's face as he pushes past the lingering crowd. The smile makes him look just as young as he was years ago, and Todd's heart aches at the sight of it.

"You came to my poetry reading."

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything then." Neil halts a foot away from Todd, hesitant. "It was your big event. I didn't want to… overshadow."

"You." Todd shakes his head as unexpected laughter bursts from his chest. Whatever anger he felt about Neil's disappearance dissipated a long time ago. "An actor passing up a dramatic entrance?"

"I've had more than my share of dramatic exits." Neil touches Todd's arm, his fingertips warm through Todd's coat. "Todd, I--"

"Please come home with me." Todd can't bear the thought of a second wasted on apologies, on reopening old wounds. He'll hear about Neil's daring escape, but later, later. There is so much _now_ stretching between them, a whipcord of tension.

"Okay," Neil murmurs. "Lead the way."

Like the play, the city dissolves in brightness as Todd moves through it, Neil the only focal point. It took him over half an hour to get to the theater, but with Neil, it feels more like five minutes to return. They've hardly finished praising each other for their respective work. It took years for Neil to break ground as an actor, but he's finally establishing himself in small theaters across the city. Todd shares a little about his poetry, but holds back the postcards, the intended audience. He'll tell Neil once they're indoors.

Todd unlocks his door and follows Neil inside. Some facet of his upbringing prompts Todd to reach out for Neil's coat, trying to take it for him, but he only ends up pulling Neil into his chest so suddenly that their noses collide.

They both lean in then, lips meeting at the same electric instant. Todd fists his hands in Neil's coat and kisses him, open-mouthed and possessive. Every flick of his tongue, every caress of his hands, translates to the same words: _I only ever wrote poems with you in mind. My audience is you, it was always you, and it will always be you._

Neil has always known how to listen for the things Todd doesn't say but means with all his heart. "Me too," Neil gasps, cupping Todd's face in his hands as though he is something rare and precious. "I wanted to go to you, but I didn't--I couldn't--"

"You found me." Todd's laughing again, the wild unbridled joy of a poet. "You're here. Neil, you're _here_."

"You felt that I was here." Neil presses his forehead against Todd's, his eyelashes lowering against his cheeks. "We found each other."

They make love in Todd's narrow bed until they fall asleep holding one another. Their early couplings have a frantic quality, as though this will be their only night together. Todd presses himself against Neil as tightly as he can, afraid to let go for an instant, afraid to close his eyes to find all has melted away. They have waited so long for these few precious moments.

When Todd wakes, still in Neil's arms, he strokes Neil's hair. That light touch is enough to wake Neil as well. They make love again, this time with the luxury of certainty. The night has ended, but not the dream.

Todd threads his fingers through Neil's, then traces Neil's knuckles with his thumb. "I'll have to write some new poems," he murmurs. The part of himself that always searches for poetry is already going through his memories: this sensation, that particular look in Neil's eyes.

Neil raises their joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of Todd's hand. "You'll read them to me first?"

This moment, both of them curled up in bed, knowing each other's thoughts as intimately as they know each other's bodies, is a poem in itself, one that Todd will spend the rest of his life knowing by heart.

"Always," Todd says.


End file.
